


The Song of My People

by AsheTarasovich (natalieashe)



Series: Can't Drown My Demons, They Know How To Swim [46]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, Belonging, Bring Me The Horizon - Freeform, Emotions, Finding Oneself, Gen, Inspired by Music, Rock and Roll, words we don’t say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-02 22:34:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16796014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/pseuds/AsheTarasovich
Summary: For much of his life, Alec is 006, an unremarkable seeming man, with remarkable skills, who can pass as unthreatening on any city street but who is the most dangerous individual most are likely to meet.  He is an agent of MI6.  A chameleon.All too often he loses himself until he finds an activity that drags him back to reality.(See notes for further info)





	The Song of My People

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dassandre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre/gifts), [3littleowls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3littleowls/gifts), [springbok7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/springbok7/gifts), [Venstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venstar/gifts), [Boffin1710](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710/gifts).



The lights go out as he walks in. 

Black. Dense. Hot. 

The fog of dry ice swirls purple, yellow, and green. With the first aggressive chord, screams rend the air. A wave of emotion palpates as the crowd surges forward.    
  
Pausing at the edge of the seething mass of bodies, he tosses back the first pint of chilled lager with barely a breath and lets the plastic glass bounce across the floor. There are dozens just like it being kicked around. Crushed underfoot.   
  
The other plastic cup is slippery with condensation, deadening the feeling in his fingertips. He swallows half the second pint, loitering on the outskirts of the sea of bodies. It swirls and eddies, bouncing and swaying. The screaming turns to chanting.    
  
Familiar words, full of passion, insolence …. and fury.   
  
_ We are possessed _ _   
_ _ We're all fucked in the head _ _   
_ _ Alone and depressed _ _   
_ _ But if we sing along _ _   
_ _ A little fucking louder _ _   
_ _ To a happy song _ _   
_ _ Maybe we'll forget  _ __   
  
This is the song of his world, his view from the shadows. He understands these words in ways the heaving throng never would, their eyes bright with naive indignation.

The world is going to hell and we’ll all follow! They sing a little fucking louder and punch the air with raised fists. 

  
The second beer still in hand when he pushes into the fray. It has perked him up, and the half bottle of vodka is still warming his stomach. He must be in the thick of it. Needs the sweat and hot press of strangers to find the man buried in his depths.

  
His outer shell melts away with each shove. He uses his body to drive through the crowd. His bulk sufficient to make steady progress towards the stage. 

His people. 

His tribe.    
  
They whistle, scream, yell. Lyrics spew from parted lips, snarled with fervour into the blazing lights that sweep the faces like searchlights, visible for only fractions of a second before moving on. The lingering feedback of guitars resonates through his chest. The pounding of the bass a second, frantic heartbeat.

  
Here, jammed together in an arena filled with strangers, he loses himself and simply exists. 

He is alone, but surrounded. 

Close, but isolated.

  
_ I'm scared to get close and I hate being alone. _ _   
_ _ I long for that feeling to not feel at all. _ _   
_ _ The higher I get, the lower I'll sink. _ _   
_ __ I can't drown my demons, they know how to swim .   
  
The circle pit opens like a sinkhole. Wider and wider, they press the crowd back, clearing the floor, until a single chord triggers the surge of insanity.    
  
The youthful ones laugh, jump, swirl, colliding like particles in Brownian motion. They are joyful and random. They mouth the stories of pain and suffering like they feel it.   
  
They have no fucking idea.

There are those that do feel. 

He recognises them in the crowd. 

Sees the bitter discontent that gnaws at their insides when they hear their stories being sung to them. They are rough, chaotic. Shove harder. Lash out. Flailing arms or careless fists make contact but they are swept out of reach before a brawl can kick off.   
  
He is one of them. 

He is one of the broken. A tortured soul.   
  
_ It comes in waves, I close my eyes _ _   
_ _ Hold my breath and let it bury me _ _   
_ _ I'm not okay, and it's not alright _ _   
_ _ Won't you drag the lake and bring me home again? _ __   
  
He is drenched in sweat and beer. Bruised and battered. He roars at the world and his place in it until he’s hoarse.    
  


Spent. 

Exhausted.   
  


He wants to be saved. Knows he never will be. 

He must save himself, over and over.

  
Defiant.   
  
_ So you can throw me to the wolves _ _   
_ _ Tomorrow I will come back _ _   
_ _ Leader of the whole pack _ _   
_ _ Beat me black and blue _ _   
_ _ Every wound will shape me _ _   
_ _ Every scar will build my throne _ __   
  


The lights come on as he leaves. 

Day bright. Blinding. Exposing every emotional scar. 

He shrugs on his shell.

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics quoted in this story are owned by the band Bring Me the Horizon, a talented group who write songs that describe my world far more eloquently than I could myself.
> 
> I dedicate this story to the people who have cared for me in the last two weeks. Without your support I would have destroyed my fragile self.


End file.
